


Devil's Trap

by angelwithblackeyes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Canon Compliant, F/M, Handcuffs, Sadism, Sex Work, Soulless Sam Winchester, ambient threat of death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 09:10:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5863225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelwithblackeyes/pseuds/angelwithblackeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The client in room 302 of the Hilltop Motel was getting a bit of a reputation. He was clean, polite, good-looking; he didn't ask for anything too weird or kinky; he tipped well, didn't complain or get clingy after. But Ashley said something just felt off about him, and Katie, who spent the night, swore she'd woken up to see him sitting in the chair across the room with a book in his lap, staring at her, unblinking; Brittany said his eyes made her skin crawl. In their line of work, gut feelings were something to take seriously. So the next time he called, Rosie arranged to be the one who answered...</i><br/>An unexpected encounter with Soulless Sam from the perspective of a demon named Rosie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devil's Trap

The client in room 302 of the Hilltop Motel was getting a bit of a reputation. He was clean, polite, good-looking; he didn't ask for anything too weird or kinky; he tipped well, didn't complain or get clingy after. But Ashley said something just felt off about him, and Katie, who spent the night, swore she'd woken up to see him sitting in the chair across the room with a book in his lap, staring at her, unblinking; Brittany said his eyes made her skin crawl. In their line of work, gut feelings were something to take seriously. So the next time he called, Rosie arranged to be the one who answered.

 

Rosie, too, had a reputation. She was petite and pretty but nothing special, sweet to the other girls, reliable and decent at the job but not the type to get many callbacks. She did have a few local repeat clients who were attracted to the dark burgundy of her hair and the rose tattoos that twined around her arms, which in their little town were enough to make her seem rebellious and alternative, but the bulk of their business was from travelers between the big cities and there just wasn't a whole lot to Rosie that held their interest.

 

But she did have a knack for dealing with problem clients, and that made her indispensable. Mostly the problems just seemed to dissolve – once a creep who'd followed Ashley home and then started showing up at her day job, but quietly left town after Rosie had appeared instead of Ashley and somehow persuaded him to move on – another time some drunken big-city douchebag who'd made Callie cry, but sent (by way of Rosie) a heartfelt apology and two months' rent before disappearing and never coming back. One time, though, some trucker from Wyoming had scared the hell out of a working mom named Christine who was new on the job, tried to trap her in his room, and then had the nerve to call the agency again the next night. Rosie showed up at Christine's while the kids were at school with a trunk full of groceries and an envelope of cash, and a few days later the trucker – now truckless, with about five dollars to his name – had turned up in the papers after a “bizarre” crime spree, entirely caught on camera, landed him in jail for the next ten years and in regional urban legends for decades. Nobody knew quite what had happened or how, but everyone at the agency knew that, somehow, Rosie was responsible.

 

So when Rosie volunteered to take the job in 302, nobody asked questions.

 

Rosie paused a moment before ringing the bell, slipping into her work persona. In the back of her mind she was running two sets of calculations. One was financial – how much did Katie say he'd tipped for an overnight? How much more did she need to make rent, and how much could she put in her emergency stash? The other was more immediate and pragmatic: if this went south, what were her options? Drawing attention right now would be a seriously bad move. She could afford that kind of thing before, big flamboyant gestures that taught shitty clients important lessons about respecting her coworkers, but this had to be solved more quietly. She'd been hearing things, filtered through the humans she surrounded herself with, and the few contacts she'd had with other demons confirmed the rumors. No one, she thought, would show up looking for trouble in her little town, but Crowley had human hunters working for him now in addition to his usual demonic thugs, and even those of Lucifer's faithful who were less than sanguine about associating with humans were going to ground among them to avoid his notice. So with hunters and demons all on the lookout for the unnatural and unauthorized, Rosie's options for dealing with problems were a bit constricted. But as always, she'd handle it.

She rang the bell. The door opened.

Lucifer's vessel smiled politely down at her.

An inane thought floated across her mind: _God, he's tall._

The vessel cleared his throat, cocking his head slightly to the side, a bit quizzical. Rosie rearranged her features into what she hoped was her usual professional perky smile. “I'm Rosie.” He nodded and stepped back, and she slipped into the room, letting him close the door behind her.

“Sam,” he offered, as she shrugged off her soft leather coat and hung it on the coat rack. Her mind reeled. Sam Winchester. The last she'd heard, he was in the cage right alongside Lucifer, a problem that couldn't be rectified so long as the so-called king of hell and his bottom-feeding traitor allies stood in the way. She put her overnight bag on the table beside the door.

She glanced back at him over her shoulder, through her long eyelashes, feigning shyness. “Hi Sam.” Brittany was right – something was off about the way he looked at her. Something was off about all of this.

Sam Winchester didn't have a soul.

 

Rosie took the room in quickly. Ceiling paneled. Floor carpeted. No devils' traps in sight. The blinds and curtains were closed, but she could bet that there would be a line of salt in front of each. Hunters had their habits. She glanced at Sam. He was looking her up and down but raised his eyes to meet hers, a little smile playing on his lips. Nothing else. If this was a trap, he wasn't ready to spring it.

She made her way toward the bed, letting herself tip a little bit on her high heels and the thick, plush carpet. Better not to look too controlled, too agile. He followed, a careful space between them. She stood beside the bed, the fingers of one hand idly toying with the top button of her shirt, and smiled up at him. Just like any other job. Just like any other client. If there was a chance of both of them surviving the night, this was where it rested: on her flawless performance of the normal and the expected. “I assume you already know the rules,” she prompted. He didn't say anything, just gave a slight, polite nod of confirmation. She waited a beat. Nothing. Just that too-intent stare. She shifted. “Then would you like to get started?”

Almost before she had finished asking, he was getting her shirt off, his huge hands surprisingly deft with the tiny buttons, and she reached for the front of his jeans, pulling him toward her. He breathed “Not yet” into her hair and she ran her hands up inside his clothes, gentle, exploring the taut stomach, the muscled chest. He pulled off both his light plaid shirt and his undershirt in one motion, exposing a genuinely impressive, tanned torso, with a warding tattoo on his chest. Skin glowing with health and weirdly devoid of scars.

She caught fleeting amusement on his face at her staring, and for a moment she was disoriented. Then they were on the bed. Sam – the vessel – the client was kissing and nipping his way down her bared chest, opening her bra, sucking – licking – she felt her body responding with surprising readiness to his touch. He touched her like he had all the time in the world, but a constant undercurrent of ravenous, urgent animal hunger. It was exquisite – perfect shameless carnal lust, the sort of thing any demon would find irresistible – and for a moment she felt herself being drawn in by it.

She stopped, held her breath for a moment. She needed to keep control, and she needed to do it without breaking the spell. But when his hand slipped up under the skirt and his fingers ran up and down the lace line of her panties with his tongue still tracing leisurely, lingering circles and his teeth light against her breast, she thought maybe control was overrated. Her hand tangled in his long hair, but the instant she touched him, he lifted his head, grinned fiercely up at her, and stopped. His hand stilled a moment where it was – torturous – and then he removed it.

Her whole body tensed a moment when he did, and he smiled that maddening smile down at her as he got up, then offered her a hand to help her up too. She followed his lead, pulling her bra the rest of the way off, recollecting herself. She was a professional, damn it, and a demon, and no empty meatsuit was going to have her acting like some lust-addled human, no matter what he could do with that tongue of his.

“Do you -” she started. But he interrupted her, not by speaking, but by unbuttoning his jeans and stepping out of them casually, kicking them aside. And now she really couldn't look away. Every muscle on him was as defined as if he spent hours a day in a gym, the bulk and bulge of him stopping just short of excess, and for the first time she could remember, she felt incredibly small. _He could pick me up and snap me in half,_ she thought, half-hysterical. Clamped down on that thought, back to the act: “Well, look at you,” she purred, looking him up and down.

“You do seem to be enjoying the view,” he said, a little smirk at the corners of his mouth. Paused, letting her stare a moment longer. Clearly he liked being looked at, so she allowed her gaze to linger as it trailed down his stomach, into the downy curls of fur and to his cock, as impressive as the rest of him. He sat down, looking for all the world like a Greek god absurdly perched on the hotel desk chair, and twisted to open one of the desk drawers. “Come here and – the carpet's pretty soft, but do you need a cushion for your knees?” His eyebrows knitted in a solicitous frown that she thought even a human would notice was entirely devoid of genuine concern. She wanted to laugh. She did, a little. He was rolling on a condom – one of the nice ones, she noted.

“I'm fine, thanks.”

He nodded as she approached and slipped gracefully to her knees, between his thighs. This part would be easy. “Use your mouth,” he said. She took him into her mouth, slow and gentle, looking up to see his face. His eyes were closed, his forehead smooth and relaxed. “That's good.” His voice was soft and breathy. “Like that.” She let herself fall into the relaxed rhythm of it, her mind drifting back to practical matters before she felt his hand in her hair and glanced up at him sharply, ready to pull away if need be. Most clients knew not to push a girl's head down unless it had been pre-negotiated. As it turned out, Sam did too, and his fingers just ran through her hair, unexpectedly gentle against her scalp. “Can you go faster?” he said, still stroking her hair. She began to, and deeper as well, working her tongue against him. This got a gasp from him, and his eyes closed tighter, his cock harder and fuller than before. She let her hand venture up and fingers run gently along his thigh as she went, exploring the soft hair, the tightened sack, and his body tensed with pleasure, the muscles taut. He was getting close, she could tell, but almost as soon as she realized it, he said – breathing rough now - “Okay, stop and get up here.” As she stood up, he pushed back the chair and knelt – still almost as tall as she was. He slid both hands under her skirt, hooking a finger into the front of the panties and taking them to her knees, and looked up at her. “You don't mind if I return the favor?”

And for a moment, as she looked into the strangely empty eyes, something in Rosie's gut wondered if maybe she ought to mind. Maybe she ought to call a halt or just tell him to skip to the intercourse, thank you. She could do that, she knew, and for a moment she thought about it. Not because she had any particular aversion to being eaten out – plenty of clients liked it, and some of them were even able to get her off for real – but because she realized that she didn't just not mind, she wanted it, and worse, she wanted Sam. Or whatever this thing was, cocking his head at her, waiting for her answer.

She shook her head. “Of course I don't mind.” Almost prim.

He grinned, running one hand smoothly up her thigh and letting his fingers brush her gently. She was already wet. “Of course you don't mind.” Holding one of her hands, he pulled her between him and the desk, so she could brace herself against it. “Lift your skirt, please.” He was so polite. She lifted it. Her panties were still around her knees, and she kicked them off. He leaned in, pushing her thighs apart with one hand, and at the same time slipped in a finger and tongued her clit, once, teasing. She almost dropped at that jolt of sensation, but he drew back. When he leaned in again, he took his time, as though he was exploring her. She groaned, the sound soft and much more real than she would have admitted. He pulled back. “Do you like that?” he asked, and she would have sworn that there was mischief in his hazel eyes. She nodded, swallowing. Her hands were tight on the edge of the desk. “You want more?”

If she'd been following her script, she would have sat back on the desk, opened her legs, and breathlessly said something like “I want you inside me now.” Or if the client seemed really into it, she'd say something about loving the way he ate her pussy. She was apparently off-script. “Please,” she said, unable to take her eyes off his. Nothing more. He laughed, quietly, and dove back in, his tongue finding all the right places but never lingering there quite as long as she wanted him to. Finally, when her body had started to shake and her legs felt weak, he returned to her clit, suddenly rough and shoving two fingers inside her. She cried out, her body going taut and a hand curling in his hair without her thinking about it, and right as she teetered on the verge of coming he stopped. Before she had time to register it, he had her skirt off and he was hoisting her onto the desk, on top of the papers and books strewn across it, nearly knocking over a glass. “Yes,” she said, wrapping her legs around him and reaching for his cock. He agreed, and when he thrust into her the first time she felt her fingertips digging into his forearms. He held her like that, against the desk, his eyes boring into hers, pure focus and desire. Again she was struck by the feeling of being very small. He pushed into her and then back out, still slow, careful, rhythmic. Her legs tightened around him, as her body tried to pull him in harder, faster, longing for the friction. She dragged her fingers down her chest and to her clit.

“Good,” he said, reaching down and squeezing her breast, toying with the nipple. “Keep doing that.” She had no intention of stopping. He pushed her gently back, so she was leaning further, and she felt him slipping in deeper.

“Oh god,” she breathed. He grinned. He began fucking her harder, faster, and she had to prop herself up on one hand.

Which, as it turned out, was a mistake. As she put her hand down, it touched something – a stake of wood on the desk? A rude jolt of pain sizzled up her arm and she yelped in surprise, jerking her hand away.

Sam paused mid-thrust, pulled back. When she looked up at him, his face had shifted to something cold and predatory. Wheels turning, calculations being run. “Sam – I -” He narrowed his eyes, not angry, but warily curious. “I'm not here to hurt you.” He barked a laugh, and she felt, simultaneously, the hairs on the back of her neck stand up and a twist of longing in her gut – maybe lower. She told herself that it was just her best chance of getting out of this room alive; she knew that it was for a much worse reason. She took a chance. “Please don't stop.”

He cocked his head to the side, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. A little snort of laughter. “Really.”

“Really,” she said.

He stared at her. Wheels turning. Then he smiled. This was a different smile than the winning, mischievous grins he'd given her before or the self-satisfied smirk. There were demons who smiled like that. She was afraid of them. “All right.” He grabbed her arm, lifting her all too easily, and turned her over. She heard the sound of a drawer opening and then clicking as he cuffed her hands behind her back.

“What's this?”

“Devils' trap. You're not going anywhere,” he said, his voice now oddly light and casual. He slipped his fingertips in, toying with her. She squirmed a little on his fingers, raising her hips to push them deeper, but he withdrew them. “But you can still tell me to stop.” She shook her head. He kneed her legs apart hard, his free hand on his cock, stroking it back to full hardness. He pushed in, then stopped, just halfway. She pressed back against him, but he turned away for a second, still inside her.

“What-”

“Shut up.” A moment later, she felt his fingers tracing down her spine. They were wet. She cried out, steam sizzling off her skin, her body thrashing thoroughly out of her control. Holy water. He held her down as she writhed in pain, thrusting himself deeper. His laugh dissolved into a groan of pleasure, and she felt herself starting to spin out. His voice grounded her. “Don't struggle.” She moaned softly in response, her eyes closing, as he went faster.

As her body began to tense and quiver, she felt his responding. “Please,” she said, not knowing what she was pleading for. “Please, Sam.” He laughed, the sound breathless and wild, and they came together, spectacularly.


End file.
